Dead in the Sierras

his footprints have failed us, Where berries are red, And madroños are rankest,— The hunter is dead! The grizzly may pass By his half-open door; May pass and repass On his path, as of yore; The panther may crouch In the leaves on his limb; May scream and may scream,— It is nothing to him. Prone, bearded, and breasted Like columns of stone; And tall as a pine— As a pine overthrown! His camp-fires gone, What else can be done Than let him sleep on Till the light of the sun? Ay, tombless! what of it? Marble is dust, Cold and repellent; And iron is rust.

Collection: 
English
Joaquin Miller

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